nothing but the long drop down
by Bellum Gerere
Summary: Shared terrible experiences with time travel seems an odd basis on which to form such a close friendship. After what they saw at Redcliffe, Nia and Dorian can't bring themselves to care.


_anyway this is the first thing i've ever posted with an oc as the main character so it's making me very Anxious tbh. some of this is probably obvious from the tags but this is set immediately after 'in hushed whispers,' during the trip back to haven. title is from 'beside you' by phildel, which is probably supposed to be about a romantic relationship but since it's fairly non-specific and these two have such a strong friendship, i feel like it works equally well here –bel_

**nothing but the long drop down**

Even though he has known her for a week or two at most, Dorian cannot help but be impressed by Nia Lavellan. After what they've just been through, he wouldn't blame her at all for breaking down, for being unable to handle it. He's having trouble keeping himself together as it is, when they emerge back in the right time. But she is calm and poised, even as she stares down the man whose actions are directly responsible for the reprehensible future they've witnessed—for the deaths of her companions. She lets the soldiers take him away and only watches, face impassive. And when she turns to Fiona and offers the rebel mages a full alliance—though he's gotten to know her far better in the past few hours alone, it's more than he'd dared hope for, and relief settles in the pit of his stomach as the room empties and the four of them are left alone.

Cassandra Pentaghast is obviously far less pleased about the decision, and when Nia walks up to her Dorian assumes it's to try and placate her, to stop an argument from breaking out right there in the middle of the castle. Still, he is less surprised than everyone else when Nia pulls her into an embrace instead. He gets the feeling that neither of them care much for physical contact, and Cassandra looks to be in something of a panic. She meets his eyes over Nia's shoulder, and he nods at her. There's nothing to say about it—how could either of them begin to describe what they've seen? When the Elder One's forces had burst through the door, Cassandra's had been the first body to hit the ground. Of course Nia wants to reassure herself that things are fine.

A few seconds after he nods, Cassandra hesitantly returns the embrace. It's not the most private place for such a thing, and there are people waiting outside for them besides, so it doesn't last much longer, but it's enough, and as Nia steps back she grips Cassandra's shoulders for a second, looking her up and down until she's satisfied that no harm was done. Dorian expects that her other companion—Solas, the second mage she'd brought along even though everyone knew there was no need for two mages—will receive the same treatment, but he doesn't. She stands close to him, her marked hand on his arm, and murmurs something that makes them both grin. The exchange is over in seconds, and Dorian can't decide which of the two feels more out of place. Then she turns to him.

"Don't tell me you're planning to leave us now," she says, and her voice is even; it's the voice of a woman who's had far too much practice hiding her emotions. "My advisors are going to want a report from you. Besides, I don't know how I would survive the trip back to Haven without your charming wit and your good looks."

"A perfectly reasonable fear, but not a necessary one." He inclines his head towards her and she smirks, returning the gesture without a second's hesitation. "I would never deny you the pleasure of my company, and I've been assured it is _quite_ a pleasure."

She looks like she's trying to hold back laughter, and though neither of her companions seem particularly amused, he's glad of it. He has the feeling that, if left to, she would be the type to dwell on what they've seen for days, and if he can minimize some of that pain simply by being himself, he's glad to do it. "Well." The smirk turns into a genuine smile. "We shouldn't keep them waiting any longer, then. It would be selfish of me to keep you all to myself."

~oOo~

It had taken them the better part of two days to reach Redcliffe by foot, and it will take them at least that long to get back, considering they've now got a veritable convoy of mages following them. From what Nia has told him, he knows that the plan is to send the mages ahead, counting on numbers alone to keep them safe while the four of them and a few trusted guards stay behind, camping for the night if for no other reason than that the two of them have injuries that need tending. Luckily, none of them are terribly serious. He heals his own minor bruises and scrapes himself, and Nia—who refuses every time he or Solas offers to look at her own injuries—staves off the worst of the pain with elfroot potions.

She doesn't speak to any of them except to answer direct questions with one- or two-word replies, and by the time they stop to make camp Dorian can tell that it's grating on the others. Cassandra in particular seems upset that Nia won't talk to her, especially after the display from earlier. She's so bothered by it that she makes a point of seeking him out, after Nia has already claimed a spot in one of the tents and disappeared into it. "What happened when you were—wherever you were?" she asks, looking around as if she's afraid someone will overhear. The fear is baseless—the only other person within earshot is Solas, and he's busy sketching something in a small journal and doesn't even glance in their direction—but still she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "I don't think I've ever seen her this quiet."

He can't help but lift an eyebrow at the worry evident in her voice. Despite what had happened earlier, he'd gotten the impression that Nia's affection for the Seeker was somewhat one-sided, but that doesn't seem to be the case. "It's not my place to tell you what she experienced," he says in a tone that he hopes brokers no argument. "The things I saw were bad enough as it is, and I don't know any of you like she does." He can still see quite clearly in his mind the expression that had been on Nia's face when Cassandra fell lifeless through those doors. It's an image he suspects will haunt him for the rest of his life.

"Perhaps you're right." It's clear that she doesn't want to admit it—he wonders if she wants to be asking him about this at all; if she cares about Nia enough to swallow her pride, though, he supposes that's a good thing. "But I don't see how I'll be able to help her if I don't know what's going on."

"Give her time." It's horrible advice, and in the back of his mind he can't help but reflect on the irony of it, but it's all he has to offer when he's still trying to process everything himself. "She won't recover so easily from the things we've seen. Probably best to just leave her be for now."

If their roles had been reversed, Dorian would have yelled at her for saying something so unhelpful, but Cassandra only nods and turns away, the set of her shoulders tense. When he looks to the side, Solas is watching him with interest from his spot by the campfire, but he doesn't say anything, just nods and turns back to his work. It's unsurprising that he could hear them, though Dorian still manages to be annoyed by it.

When they were on their way to Redcliffe, the four of them slept in two tents, and Nia shared with Cassandra. It's what they'd been doing the whole time, or so he was told, but he suspects that now the last thing Nia wants is to see either of them, not with that hurt still fresh in her mind. He picks up the small bag that holds his belongings and, with only a brief glance behind him, ducks into her tent.

He isn't sure what he expected, but what he's met with is a loud, disgruntled sigh. "I _told_ you," she says as she turns around to face him, "I don't need anyone to—" The expression on her face—part annoyance, part surprise, part mild embarrassment—would have amused him in any other situation. As it is, it only serves as a grim reminder. "Sorry. I thought you were Cass. She usually stays in here with me."

"I know." He places his pack down on the opposite side of the tent and sits down next to it, giving her as much distance as he can in such a small space. "I didn't think that was such a good idea tonight."

"I'm sure you're right." She laughs, but it sounds strained. The dark green riding coat she'd been wearing, the one that's now spotted with blood, has been tossed in a corner, and she sits in her breastband and trousers, her shirt nowhere to be seen. He feels like he should apologize and excuse himself, but she would have told him to leave herself if she cared that much, and besides, he's distracted by the sizeable gash on her abdomen.

"I thought you didn't have any serious injuries," he says, motioning towards it. From what he can tell, it doesn't look like anything that couldn't be fixed with a good healing spell, but he's not particularly adept at them himself, and she hasn't let Solas near her since that first moment in Redcliffe. As it is, it will heal, but she'll be left with a nasty scar. "Someone could have helped you with that."

"I don't want or need anyone's help with it," she snaps, and immediately looks like she regrets it. He staves off any apology she might've been preparing to make with a small shake of his head. She purses her lips for a moment as she looks at him, but doesn't say anything as she turns her attentions back to the gash. He watches as she places her hand over it and closes her eyes, focusing on something intently. A moment later there's a soft pulse of light, and he feels the distinct pull of healing magic in the air. When she moves her hand the gash isn't fixed, but it looks better than it had only moments ago.

"Interesting," he says as she uncorks yet another elfroot potion with her teeth and drinks the whole thing. "Does your charming mage companion out there know you can do that?"

"_Charming_ isn't the word I'd use, and no, he doesn't." She wrinkles her nose in an expression that is very near distaste, but not quite there. "And you're not going to be the one to tell him."

"Why not?"

He expects an answer as simple as _I want my healing abilities to remain a secret even if they're mediocre at best_, but instead she presses her lips together and sighs, shifting on top of her bedroll. "He's made his opinions about the Dalish quite clear," she says. There's a venomous thread running through the words, but it seems she's too tired for much more than that. "If he knew how my clan tried so hard to keep me in training to be a mage, even after I'd said no more times than I can count—well. I'm sure my experiences aren't universal, but I don't want to prove him right in even the smallest way."

Dorian nods. It's a lot of information to take in at once, and he's surprised she revealed any of it to him—to someone who is more or less a stranger to her. But on another level, it feels normal, compared to the rest of the day. He has the feeling that he could tell her every horrible thing that's happened to him and she wouldn't bat an eye, or vice versa. They won't, he knows; they're both a bit too private for that. Still, it's a refreshing feeling.

He turns to his pack and begins to pull out his bedroll, and after a moment of watching him in silence Nia laughs. "You're not even going to ask?" she says, tilting her head as she looks at him. She's taken her hair out of its braid, brushed it out as best she can, but there are still knots in it, places where the rust-colored stain of dried blood stands out when it catches the light of the tent's single lantern. "I'd assumed another mage would be interested in hearing _that_ story."

It takes him a minute to weigh his options in his head. On the one hand, he is curious, more than he has any right to be. And not just about why she didn't want to be a mage; her comment about Solas and his opinions on the Dalish has him wondering how the two of them even get along, let alone why she seemed so distraught when his casting had stopped in that alternate future—when they both knew he was dead, and she looked as if the ground had dropped out from under her. On the other hand, he doesn't expect her to spill her life story to him just because of one shared trauma. But if they don't have anything else to think about, they'll spend the whole night dwelling on what they've seen, and that won't get them anywhere. And she _did_ offer to tell him…

"Alright, I'll bite." He sits back down on his newly spread-out bedroll, facing her. "Why did you insist on quitting your training?"

She runs her fingers through her hair, trying to comb out any of the remaining knots as she thinks about what to say, though after a few tries she gives up entirely and switches to covering the cut on her abdomen with a fresh bandage instead. "I have a sister," she says after a moment. "Bronwyn. She's a mage. The reason our parents sent us with clan Lavellan was because they wanted to give us a more stable life, and the reason the clan accepted us was because they needed mages. Badly."

She finishes pressing the bandage into place and reaches for her pack, pulling out a large, clean tunic that he assumes is meant for sleeping in. He goes to turn his back when she starts to pull at the laces of her trousers, but she waves him off with a roll of her eyes. He doesn't know if it's because she wants to be able to see his face as she tells him all this or because she simply doesn't care, but either way, he still averts his gaze as much as possible. In truth, _he_ doesn't much care, but they've had no chance to establish that boundary yet.

"Most clans will only keep a few mages around—the Keeper, their First and Second, and maybe a healer or two. The rest get sent to other clans, or asked to leave entirely, if there are too many. Of course, there's always a couple of younger ones that are in training. But clan Lavellan didn't even have that. The only mages were the Keeper, Deshanna, and the First—a girl named Ellana, only a couple of years older than my sister and I. Deshanna was hesitant when my parents first contacted the clan, but after she heard that we'd both shown the potential to become mages, she agreed to take us in immediately."

He can tell just by watching her out of the corner of his eye that even the small movements required to peel off her trousers and put the tunic on are paining her. He wants to offer his help—he could at least give her more relief than those elfroot potions ever would—but he already knows better than to ask. "We started our training together. Bronwyn was always a good student, but I was restless. I always wanted to be moving. So the clan let me train with some of the younger hunters when I wasn't busy with my own training, just so I would have a way to work off some of that energy. And I loved it." She finishes pulling the tunic on and tugging one of the furs she's brought with her over her legs, and he turns back to her. "I'd never had so much room to move around before, and using the bow made me feel…powerful." The wistful grin that had crept onto her face turns mischievous. "In a matter of months I was a better shot than most of the others my age."

He frowns. There's got to be something he's missing, he thinks—it seems a deceptively simple story, and Nia does not strike him as a simple person. "So you quit because you liked being an archer?"

"That was part of it, yes, but not all of it." She tugs at her bottom lip with her teeth, the smile fading. "I hadn't realized how much freedom I was being denied because of my training until I saw what the hunters were doing. And I know it was because of differences in the _way _hunters and mages are trained, and because the clan wanted to keep us safe, but…it rubbed me the wrong way. Before I'd only been a bit fidgety during my lessons. After I figured that out I could barely sit through them. Eventually I stopped attending entirely. I was twelve."

"What did they do?" He pulls out his own sleeping clothes and a roll of bandages, though from what he can tell, he won't actually need them. He's healed his own injuries well enough. She mimics his gesture from earlier, turning her eyes towards the far wall even as she keeps facing him.

"Deshanna was furious. She tried to reason with me several times. When I didn't listen to her, she went to the clan's chief hunter. I think she was hoping he could talk some sense into me." She lets out a short, sharp laugh. "Instead, he offered me a deal. A test of sorts, to see if I was good enough to leave my mage training and join up with the other hunters. He more or less sent me out into the woods to kill something. One of the other hunters-in-training, one a few years older than me, followed me to make sure I didn't get _myself_ killed, but he wasn't to intervene. I had to make the kill on my own."

"And?" He's not sure whether it's a testament to her storytelling ability or the unusual nature of her situation, but he finds himself awaiting her next words, even though, logically, he knows how the story ends.

She grins again, prideful this time. "I brought down a wolf."

This time the expression on his face isn't exaggerated at all. He tries to picture her as she must have looked when the story took place—younger, shorter, her face not quite so gaunt. He wonders if she already had the tattoos. He'll ask her about it later, he resolves, unsure whether or not she would consider it a personal question. "All by yourself?"

"Yes." She laughs and the sound is loud and bright, not strained like it had been earlier. Either she's an exceptional actress, or telling the story has calmed her down, as he hoped it would. Stopped her from thinking about it too much. "Do you not believe me? You've seen me shoot."

"I've seen you shoot _now_," he says, correcting her, as he settles back down on his bedroll and she turns her gaze to meet his. "But you're telling me a story that took place when you were twelve, and now you're…" He trails off with one eyebrow raised. Now that he's all but asking, he realizes he's never stopped to think about how old she might be.

"Twenty-five," she says softly. No, there will be no end to the surprises she seems to have in store for him. But looking at her now, armed with this new knowledge, he wonders how he missed it before. It would be easy, he supposes, to see only the tattoos, the scars, the skill with a bow, and assume that she's older than she looks. Yet here she is, carrying the world on her shoulders.

"That's—"

"Younger than you thought Andraste's Herald would be?" Another laugh, this one bitter and broken. He wishes he hadn't asked. "You'd be surprised how often I've heard that as of late. Or perhaps you wouldn't be."

They drop off into silence, and though the nagging images of what they saw at Redcliffe curl through the tent like smoke, it's comfortable nonetheless. Dorian finds that every time he speaks to her, he likes her a bit more, and he'll admit that his opinion of her has shot up since he saw her offering a full alliance to the mages—even though the Seeker disapproved, even though she could easily have conscripted them instead. Even knowing she'll face the wrath of at least one of her advisors when she returns to Haven (and he's dealt with plenty of men like him, but Dorian still wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of Cullen Rutherford's anger). She is, in short, not what he expected, and he's starting to find that, at least in this instance, he quite enjoys being proven wrong.

Nia digs around in her bag and pulls out another flask, but she doesn't drink from it, turning it over in her hands instead. "If I might ask," he says, somewhat hesitant, and she looks up at him curiously. "Why were you at the Conclave in the first place?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" To his great relief, she doesn't look offended—more amused than anything else. "What would a Dalish elf be doing at a thing like that? Why even bother?" She shakes her head. "Most clans don't care enough about human affairs to involve themselves in them. But my clan did a fair amount of trading with nearby towns, since we didn't move around quite so much, and the Keeper thought it would be a good idea to find out what was going on directly, as opposed to hearing it secondhand. I interacted with humans on a frequent basis, since I was almost always a member of the parties sent out to trade. So she picked me to go, and sent Ellana with me. To _make sure Adahlena doesn't do anything stupid_, she said." Once again, the levity fades quickly, and she looks back down at the flask in her hands. "And I was the only one who survived."

There is no sorrow in her voice. She says it as a simple statement of fact, nothing more. Still, he can't help but feel guilty yet again for bringing up something he's sure she would rather not have talked about. "I'm sorry."

She offers him a weak smile in return. "It's okay. I just—haven't had much time to process it, I suppose. There's always _something _for me to do here."

There's a certain finality about her words, one that's only accentuated by her opening the flask in her hands and downing its contents. He doesn't know what was in it, and he doesn't want to bother her with more questions; not now, at least. She puts the empty flask away and lays down, staring at the top of the tent with single-minded focus. After several minutes during which they don't speak to each other, he leans over and blows the lantern out.

~oOo~

She wakes him sometime in the middle of the night.

He knows right away she hasn't done it on purpose, that she's trying her best to be quiet, but she's crying, and the shuddering breaths she draws between sobs are enough to rouse him. He's never been a heavy sleeper anyway. In the dim light coming through the flap of the tent, which she'd gotten up to open several hours ago in the hopes of letting in some warmth from the fire outside, he can see her sitting up on her bedroll. She's got her knees pulled up to her chest, head resting on them, arms wrapped around her legs, and she's shaking so much that it's obvious even in the tent's poor lighting.

The display of emotion, even though she wouldn't have intended for anyone else to see it, is startling enough to make him sit up as well, climbing out of the mess of furs on his bedroll to kneel besides hers. "Nia, are you quite alright?"

This time her sudden intake of breath is more startled than anything, and when she looks up at him, there are tear tracks shining on her face, gathered under her eyes. "I—yes, I'm fine," she says, turning away and wiping at them with angry, unthinking movements. "I didn't mean to wake you."

He can't help the scoff that slips out of his mouth, any more than he can help the words that follow it. "After everything we've seen in the past twenty-four hours alone, you're apologizing for waking me up?"

She chuckles, a weak, watery thing, and lets her hands drop back to her sides. "When you put it like that, it does sound ridiculous," she says. "But I've gotten used to…not showing weakness. And the others seeing me like this could certainly be classified as a weakness."

"It shouldn't be," he declares without a moment's hesitation. "They didn't see any of it. Anyone who had would be doing the same thing."

A small scoff of her own escapes her, and she slumps, all the tension draining out of her shoulders. That should be a good thing, he thinks, but it isn't. He's never seen anyone look so defeated. "That's just it, though. They didn't see. And I don't know if I'll be able to tell them."

He senses more coming, so he stays quiet for the time being. The situation is already uncomfortable enough for both of them—but she's right. Nobody else saw. Neither of them have anyone else to go to. And, if he's being honest with himself, there's no one else here he would _want _to go to. Not with this.

"I wasn't supposed to care," she says, and if he thought that the sight of her sobbing was bad, the hollow, broken tone of her voice is a million times worse. "All they wanted was my help closing the Breach. That's it. They never said anything about attachment, or even some sort of long-term arrangement. Just close the Breach, and then I could go home. It should have been easy—as easy as something like this can be." She stretches her left hand out in front of her, tilting it this way and that so that the light reflects off her skin. When it isn't flaring up, it's near impossible to tell where the mark even is.

"And I knew I would have to get along with these people. I at least had to be civil to them, because there was no way we'd be able to work together otherwise. But working together didn't have to equate to friendship, and it…has."

He gets the distinct impression that she's never truly let anyone close to her, or, if she has, the number of people is quite low. She voices all of this to him with the strained air of a forced confession, not because it comes unwillingly, but because she doesn't know how to say it. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," she repeats, as if saying it will ground her somehow. It seems to calm her, at least, and she straightens up, her shoulders held back as she stares resolutely through the open tent flap. Now is the time to say something, but with all she's revealed to him, whether intentionally or not, he doesn't even know where to start.

"Nia—" he begins, but she cuts him off with a grimace, shaking her head like he's offended her somehow.

"That's not my name."

Another raised eyebrow. This woman will etch a permanent expression of surprise on his face before they even make it back to Haven. "Oh? It's all I've heard anyone call you," he says, then remembers the conversation they had earlier, the story she told him. "Do you prefer Adahlena, then?"

The displeased appearance of her face only deepens. "That's not my name, either. That's what the clan started calling me when they took me in. They told me that an Elvhen name might make me feel like less of an outsider, but they were doing it for their benefit, not mine." She tugs at her bottom lip with her teeth, but her gaze doesn't waver as she stares at him. "My name is Ardenia."

He's not sure how he looks in response, but it makes her laugh, and for the first time since they emerged here, a smile stretches across her face—a real, uninhibited one. "I should know better than to think you'll run out of things to shock me with, it seems," he says. "That's a Tevene name."

"It is." She inclines her head towards him in a gesture that mimics what he did earlier. "Perhaps one day I'll even tell you how I got it. But no one's used it in years. It would be…nice to hear it every once in a while. The other names—I don't mind them, but they don't feel like they belong to me."

He nods. Part of him wants to press, but he knows he's already gotten enough out of her today—and besides, she's asked nothing in return, demanded nothing but what he's willing to give. It wouldn't feel right to dig into her past when he is still unsure about offering up his own. "Do either of them know it?" he asks instead, gesturing in the direction of the tent where Solas and Cassandra are, theoretically, both asleep. "Or any of your companions, for that matter?"

The answer is clear in her expression, in the way she suddenly refuses to meet his gaze. "No. They don't."

"Perhaps it's time they do."

In lieu of an answer, she stretches her arms above her head and lays down on her back, not bothering to get under the furs. Her legs are long and bare, and even in light as dim as this he can tell they're dotted with scars. When he shifts back on his haunches and tugs his bedroll across the tent so its edge brushes up against hers, she doesn't say anything, doesn't even move. But when he lays down and reaches his arm towards her, she turns to him without a second thought, burrowing herself in his side. It has been a long time since he's let himself get this close to someone. A long time since he's even _wanted _to. After all they've just seen, he doesn't care.

"Yes," she says, more breath than voice. "Perhaps it is."

~oOo~

The next time he wakes up, the tent flap is closed and sunlight streams through the small gaps still left, and he is alone. For a moment it makes him worry, before he remembers where he is, remembers the particulars of his conversations with Ardenia, and he reassures himself that wherever she's gone, she's fine. The rational part of him knows she would have only left to eat or finally clean off her bow or something of the sort, but he isn't sure how rational he can continue to be, not when faced with the prospect of having to drag everything he can remember from the previous day from his memory to put on paper.

He had intended to ask her what, if anything, she would leave out of her report, and he still intends to do so, but when he emerges from the tent, dressed and with the rest of his things in his pack, she's sitting around what remains of the fire with the others. As far as he can tell, she isn't speaking to them, but the fact that she's willing to put herself in such close proximity to them, knowing that it will inevitably result in questions she doesn't want to answer, feels like progress compared to where she had been. Her bag is packed and sitting on the ground next to her and her bow is slung across her back, though her fingers twitch and he wonders if she would feel safer with it in her hands, despite the fact that there's no danger here. The mages have long since passed them—are already in Haven, most likely—and even if there weren't a few soldiers that stayed behind, the four of them were more than capable of handling anything they came across, he was sure.

Even if they weren't working together as well as they normally seemed to.

It's easy to see—even to him, and he's only known these people for a couple of weeks—that Cassandra is frustrated. Dorian takes a seat and helps himself to what remains of the food, and every few minutes as he's eating, she'll glance over at Ardenia as if she expects her to start talking at any moment, to spell out everything that she wasn't around to see. The silence that Nia offers in reply is irritating her. He worries it's only a matter of time before she says something about it, something she'll regret, though there's always a chance she'll realize now is the time to hold her tongue.

On the other hand, Solas is either far less frustrated with the situation or far better at hiding it. He bids Dorian good morning with what seems to be his customary nod and returns to his reading without even a word exchanged between them. The fact that he doesn't speak doesn't feel hostile, like Cassandra's silence does—it is calm and accepting, or at least resigned. Once or twice Dorian looks up and catches him watching Nia, brow furrowed slightly in an expression he can't quite place, but at least he doesn't have to worry about what he might say.

They break camp almost as soon as Dorian is done eating, tearing down with the sort of practiced ease that speaks to the amount of time the three of them have spent around each other. There's an awkward gap where Dorian is, as much as he helps—they're simply not used to having him around, though they make no comment. Ardenia breaks the silence once, to make sure everything is packed up and ready, and then they move.

She walks at the front of their small group, and he keeps pace with her, not wanting to leave her alone even in that smallest of ways. Every second that she spends on her own is a second she has to dwell, something he doesn't want for either of them. So he walks with her at the front, and they speak quietly. She outlines the basic structure of the Inquisition to him, asks him about his specific magical skills and any areas of potential weakness, and she does it all with a sort of detached politeness. He already knows enough to be able to see through it—to notice the hints of laughter in her eyes when he gives an answer she thinks is particularly amusing, to see how her lips press together when she's reminded of something less pleasant—but to anyone else, it would appear a conversation between colleagues and nothing more. It's an image he's happy to perpetuate, at least for now. Maker knows she's going to get an earful from her advisors when she asks him to join up officially.

It's one of the things they discuss in quiet voices, glancing around to make sure the other two are out of earshot. She wants him to stay, and he doesn't want to leave for more reasons than he can count, not the least of which is that he feels he truly has nowhere else to go now. 'Saving the world from a hole in the sky' seems as good a cause to join as any, and the look of mixed happiness and relief on Ardenia's face when he tells her is worth any misgivings he might have had. He almost feels the need to protect her now; she doesn't need it—he's seen firsthand how capable she is of taking care of herself—but he also realizes the amount of pressure the Inquisition is putting on her is massive. He gets the feeling she would like having someone take care of her for a change, even if all that means is complaining to each other or sitting in the same room while they read.

"I'll have them clear out a cabin for you when we get there," she says, and her voice is hoarse from talking so much, and from crying last night, and he doesn't say anything because he's certain she already knows. "Or a space in one, at least. There's some we're only using for storage, but there's got to be room for you somewhere."

He hears the unspoken addition—_if there isn't, I'll _make _room_—and he's grateful for it. He wouldn't have found such generosity from any of the others. But he doesn't vocalize the thought, and she doesn't acknowledge it, and they spend the rest of the walk in silence.

~oOo~

The spymaster, Leliana, receives much the same treatment as Cassandra had the day before. She's barely able to get a few words in before Ardenia embraces her. It's clear that she is just as surprised; despite this, she takes it in stride, returning the gesture before she asks for any updates. Nia fills her in on the basics, asks to leave the rest for the written report, and Dorian nods in silent agreement. There is too much, and all of it too painful, to say out loud. Cassandra and Solas had finished theirs already, Leliana tells them, and if there's any annoyance because they came straight to the Chantry to report and Ardenia didn't, she does a good job of hiding it. She leaves the two of them alone in the War Room, with quills and pots of ink and what looks like enough parchment to cover Nia's cabin three times over.

She looks far better than she had the last time he saw her, not even two hours before. Someone must have drawn a bath for her; any remnants of their trip have been washed off her face and her hair is clean, devoid of dried blood, a few pieces braided back to keep them out of her face. She's dressed simply, in another plain tunic and leggings and boots and a grey cardigan that she pulls tight around herself as she takes a seat at the end of the table, far enough away from the map that she won't have to worry about messing it up. She looks exhausted, but, then again, he assumes he does as well. He'll have to ask her where she procured that bath, though there are more pressing matters at hand.

"I've already been visited by Cassandra," Ardenia says. She pulls a sheet of parchment from one of the stacks and sets it in front of her. Her hand shakes. "And Varric. And Blackwall. All of them demanding to know if I'm alright."

There's a certain resignation to her voice, as if she was expecting exactly this situation, and based on how Cassandra acted on the way back from Redcliffe, it's easy enough to see how she would draw that conclusion. He mimics her actions, reaching for a piece of the parchment and a quill himself, but the necessity of steady hands for casting makes his movements smoother. "Nothing from Solas?"

"Nothing." He can't decide if the forced casual lilt in her tone is meant to hide relief or disappointment. "Which is probably a good thing. I was casting a bit, and—like I said. I don't want him to know about it."

Dorian nods, and they both grab inkwells, and for a moment all they can do is stare down at the table. They've spent so long trying not to think about it that now it feels as though they've underestimated the enormity of the task at hand. As if she can read his thoughts, she whispers "What do we tell them?"

It's a question he's been asking himself since she showed up at the door to his hastily-obtained quarters and told him it was about time they made their way up to the Chantry. He's still no closer to an answer. "Everything, I suppose. Or, everything you can tell them without making them question your sanity."

"Well." Ardenia props her head up on her right hand, twirling the quill around in her left and staring at it. A smile plays at the edge of her lips. He will have been there, at least, if no one else believes her. He will know. "That doesn't leave much."

"No. It doesn't."

They remain in the war room until well past midnight, speaking only to confirm facts or to ask if the other had seen something. He knows, and she must, too, that this is the last time they will talk about it. He will hold the pain of it tight to his chest, and so will she, and that's how it will go. How it has to go. But when they fall into companionable, if stilted, silence, he can't help but think there are far worse places to be.

~oOo~

"What were you thinking, turning mages loose with no oversight? The Veil is torn open!"

"We need them to close the Breach. It's not going to work if we make enemies of them."

"I know we need them for the Breach, but they could do as much damage as the demons themselves!"

A delicate sigh, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose. Dorian watches from his position against one of the Chantry's many pillars, distancing himself from the circle the five of them have formed. Things are bad enough without him getting on the Commander's nerves, though he can't keep himself from interjecting once or twice. Ardenia, at least, handles Cullen's anger gracefully, far more so than he would have expected of her when dealing with such a sensitive subject. He's glad to see that most of the others are backing up her decision; even Cassandra, who had made no secret of her displeasure at Nia's offer, speaks in her favor. Still, the tension persists, and when Cullen suggests they move the conversation to the war room, and that Nia join them, Dorian detects a hint of poorly-veiled hostility there. She will not smooth this one over so easily.

The dark circles under her eyes are even more prominent than they were the night before—he wonders if she's slept at all—and it's clear the last thing she wants or needs is several more hours of arguing. Luckily, Josephine intercedes on her behalf, turning the offer to _join us when you're ready_. Ardenia turns, and catches his eye with an expression of barely-disguised relief.

"I'll skip the war council," he says, watching a grin start to widen on her face, "but I would like to see this Breach up close, if you don't mind."

The others turn to look at him. Nia tucks a stray piece of hair back behind her ear. "So you're…staying?"

They had spoken of it on the way back. She had insisted she'd find a place for him, if he wanted one. But the hint of doubt that still colors her voice makes him question whether she'd really believed him before now. "Oh, didn't I mention? The South is so charming and rustic. I adore it to little pieces."

The grin is a full-fledged smile now. It changes her entire face. "There's no one I'd rather be stranded in time with. Future or present."

"Excellent choice." He inclines his head towards her, and is glad to hear her respond with a quiet laugh. "But let's not get _stranded_ again anytime soon, yes?"

Still laughing, she nods. The others are watching them with no small amount of awkwardness. It seems no one knows quite what to make of the exchange. "Well," Cullen says after a moment, clearing his throat. "I'll begin preparations to march on the summit. Maker willing, the mages will be enough to grant us victory."

Yet again, he hears the thread of an insult in the words, but Nia ignores it, and soon enough the little gathering disperses. Dorian follows her when she turns towards the Chantry's main doors. "I was hoping you'd do that," she says when the others are out of earshot. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

She steps outside and pauses, inhaling deeply for a moment before she starts down the path. They walk in silence, but when he offers his elbow, she slips her fingers into its crook with another small quirk of her lips. She leads him to her cabin, where she shuts the door behind him, and he's met with the sight of—her. Or rather, someone who looks like her, with shorter hair and different tattoos and an anxious expression he doubted he'd ever see Nia wear. It takes him a second to piece things together, but when he looks beside him, Nia's smile has turned into a smirk.

"Well?" she asks, tightening her grip on his elbow for a fraction of a second.

"Ardenia, darling, when you told me you had a sister, I didn't think you meant there were _two _of you."

_that feeling when ur twin wants to join up with the inquisition and picks the worst possible night to show up_

_i've already listed this as part of a series so i'm sure it's obvious that there's going to be a lot more here, but since this is a one-shot and it's looking like the two LI fics are going to be multi-chapter (because i'm not subjecting anyone to one-shots that long) i thought this would make sense first. anyway i just think these two are really alike in that they both keep their emotions close, but here's a situation that kind of forces them to open up to each other for lack of anyone else to talk to. truly within a few days after this they're pretty much inseparable already_


End file.
